


Look at Your Game

by cay0011001



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: also! i don’t condone serial killers or their actions at all i just think this would be interesting, serial killer au, uhh i haven’t posted anything in a while but more tags will be added later as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 07:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cay0011001/pseuds/cay0011001
Summary: FBI agents are dying at the hands of a murderer within their ranks. Bill’s worried he’s next.tl;dr: holden is a serial killer lmaoo





	Look at Your Game

There’s a loud slap on Bill’s desk, and he turned to see another manila folder labeled “**_THE FBI SKINNER_**”. The corner of a photo’s spilled out, and he can read “-**_ENCE_**” in harsh red letters. He winced. Cases where he knew the victims were rare, but always awful, and this one was particularly gruesome. The Skinner was absolutely _not_ an exaggeration.

“That’s the fifth one this _month_, Bill.” Holden said, shoving his hands in his pockets as Bill reluctantly pulled the file towards him. “I knew the guy, had lunch with him a few times. This is so fucked.”

The cases were obviously affecting Holden as well. He’d been having more and more panic attacks, almost one every two weeks since the case opened seven months ago. Bill was unfortunately present for most of them, having to guide Holden through deep breathing and rub his back and shit. It was a hassle, especially when he was about to go for a piss, but Wendy said having someone show that they care could help lessen the attacks. Evidently, it did not, but there’s no shame in trying.

Except when the entire cafeteria is staring at you as you cradle a sobbing grown man on the floor. That sucked, and everyone had referred to Bill as Holden’s mother since, which was uncomfortable for both.

Bill couldn’t blame Holden, though. Thirty-seven of their coworkers had died at the mercy of The Skinner, and who knows—they could be next, and it would be someone they knew, maybe even trusted who took their lives.

Bill shuddered thinking about it and brought his attention back to the folder. He opened it slowly, and immediately recognized the mutilated dead body photographed on the front page as a former coworker, Danny Crawford. He was a well-liked teacher, just like he and Holden at one point.

All of the victims were.

Bill closed his eyes and shut the folder, letting out a heavy sigh and leaning back in his chair. That image would definitely revisit him when he tried to fall asleep that night.

“Is it the same pattern?” he asked, pinching his nose. “Do I really have to look through that?”

“Yeah, looks like it. He was tied to a tree, then his face was cauterized off, probably with a hot knife, and shoddily replaced with stitches. His tongue had been removed as well, and he likely died of shock as there were no other injuries,” Holden stated, taking back the file and straightening the paper inside. “Number thirty-eight. It’s unimaginable, really. Who the fuck would do this?”

Bill sighed once more, then sat up and grabbed the file from Holden, starting to sift through it again. The photos were beyond disturbing—the victim’s mouth pried open to show the absence of tongue, the intricate hand stitches in his face—even the knots used to tie him. “Where was he found?” Bill sighed.

“By the Creek,” Holden said. “Just like the others. Oh, his hair was damp when officials arrived, and they estimate the time of death to be just an hour and a half before then.”

“Fucking _Christ_,” Bill breathed, squinting at Crawford’s corpse. Just the sight made his stomach drop. The guy had been really good-looking—young with a bushy beard and a smile that could brighten up a room. He was pretty fit, if not a little chunky, and his relationship with his family seemed to be great. Now he’d been reduced to this. “This guy had six kids. I can’t imagine any of our agents doing this.”

“It’s insane, but we’re all suspects. No one else would even know he was in Quantico. He’d been working road school in Florida and hadn’t told anyone he’d come back. Apparently,”—Holden sucked in a breath—“he was planning to surprise his wife.”

Holden and Bill both winced at that. Danny was 100% family-oriented, always talking about his wife (Madeleine) and kids (there were six, no one really knew their names) during elevator small talk. It was annoying at the time, but Bill found himself missing it now. Handing back the file, Bill stood, tugging on his tie.

“You want to talk to her, I assume?” Holden asked, putting the file in a teetering pile dedicated to the Skinner.

“You know me so well,” Bill replied, sarcastically.

Holden laughed a little too loudly as he left Bill’s office to get his own coat, and Bill raised an eyebrow. He had tried not to think about it, but ever since the murders first came to their attention, Holden had been acting strange around Bill. To be specific, he was weirdly protective, always laughing at his jokes, and standing a little too close when they were talking to suspects. As if he were worried about him, which would be insane, considering Bill was fifteen years older than the kid and could very well handle himself, thank you very much.

Bill’s second thought was that Holden had a crush on him, which was also insane, because Bill had just left his wife (keyword: wife) and Holden got dumped by his girlfriend (again, keyword: girl). Even if he were gay, or bi, or whatever, Holden would not be his first pick. To reiterate, he was fifteen years older than the kid, as in eighteen when he was three. Gross.

“You ready?” Holden asked, suddenly at Bill’s door. Dispelling the thoughts from his head and picking up his briefcase, Bill nodded and led the way from the basement up to the parking lot and his car. Taking Holden’s suitcase, he threw them both in the trunk before sitting in the driver’s seat.

Or at least trying to.

“What, you think I can’t drive?” Holden said, hand out for the keys. Bill squinted, but begrudgingly reached into his pocket and dropped the keys into Holden’s hand, then circled around the car to slide into the passenger seat. Holden winked, which was weird, before starting the car. As they pulled away from the lot, Bill rested his arm on the window and stared at the two other agents leaving as well.

No agents in their right minds went anywhere alone anymore. It was unnerving, FBI agents having to act as if they were helpless college girls in a rape-rampant city as opposed to well-trained professionals in a normally crime-free town. Bill swallowed hard, and turned his gaze forward.

Around fifteen very dull minutes later, the two arrived to Danny’s home in Dumfries and stepped up to the front door, preparing themselves for the cascade of emotion they were likely about to face. There was only one light on in the kitchen, but it was just six, so Bill figured it was alright to at least knock.

Tap. Tap.

Bill heard some shuffling inside before an exhausted-looking Mrs. Crawford opened the door, staring at their shoes, eyes glassy. She looked as if she hadn’t showered or changed clothes since Danny’s death, her dirty blonde hair, greasy and tangled, in a sloppy bun, and wrinkles that weren’t on her photo in the file had suddenly appeared. The death had made her a shell of the perky, happy woman she once was, and her children had to go live with her parents while she grieved.

“... What do y’all need?” she asked, slowly looking up at Bill, then to Holden. She flinched upon seeing the latter, but Bill decided not to take too much notice to that.

“Ma’am, I’m Agent Tench, and this is Agent Ford—we’re with the FBI.” He and Ford flashed their badges together, and Bill reminisced on how cool he had felt the first time he did it. How time flies. “We just have some questions about your late husband, Agent Crawford.”

Madeleine sighed, but stepped aside for Bill and Holden as they came in and sat side by side on her couch. The house, as far as Bill could tell, wasn’t that much of a disaster. Sure, there were takeout containers littering the tables, but it looked like that was all she was eating so there weren’t any dirty dishes or anything. There was a funky smell, though, probably the same takeout. The ugly side of grief had taken over this house.

Mrs. Crawford sat in the armchair across from them, looking somewhat dazed. For a minute, she just stared at Holden, looking frightened. It was unsettling for Bill, so Holden no doubt felt even worse. Evidently, he casually scooted closer to Bill as he asked, “Ma’am, are you alright? We can come back later if you—“

“Oh, sorry, I’m fine,” Madeleine interrupted, sitting up straighter. “Since Danny, I’ve been... it’s hard to stay present, sometimes.”

“I completely understand, ma’am. We’ll try to make this as quick as possible,” Bill said, taking a small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket and positioning himself to write.

Throughout the interview, Madeleine said nothing unremarkable—how her husband was a wonderful man and she couldn’t believe anyone had done this, where she was the night of, how the kids were devastated—pretty average stuff. However, as Bill and Holden moved to leave, she put a hand on Bill’s knee, beckoning him to stay.

“I’m sorry, I just... Can we talk? In... In private?” she asked, looking worriedly back and forth between him and Holden. Bill turned to Holden, who tutted but stood, going out the front door and waiting on the steps.

Once he’d left, Madeleine leaned in closer. Her eyes were frantic, and she began to whisper, as if she were nervous somebody else was listening.

“The night after Danny,” she began, jaw beginning to tremble. “I had a dream.”

Bill tried to hold back his disappointment as well as he could. Dreams were never used as evidence, since they were just figments of imagination and did nothing but raise suspicion and put people on edge, but nonetheless he continued to listen.

“I saw him. That boy,“—Madeleine gestured vaguely toward Holden—“I _saw_ him.”

Bill grimaced in disbelief, but still scribbled what Madeleine had said onto a new piece of paper. “You saw him doing what, ma’am?” he asked, sounding uninterested.

“Nothing. I saw him buying chips at a gas station,” she said, and Bill felt very confused. She must have noticed, because she continued, “I’ve been having recurring dreams of him doing mundane tasks every single night, and I’ve _never_ seen him in my _life_ before today.”

Now _that_ was strange.

“Alright,” Bill drawled, continuing to detail her words into his pad. “And you think this has something to do with Danny because...?”

“It’s alright if you don’t believe me,” she said, moving her face away from Bill, “but I know in my heart he has something to do with Danny. My husband is sending me a _message_—“

Bill sighed, reaching up to scratch the bridge of his nose and closing his pad, shoving it back in his pocket. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry, but we can’t raise suspicions based on dreams. If you have any actual proof, I’ll be happy to—“

Madeleine shot up and sped to the kitchen, frantically digging around for something. Bill got up and walked over beside her just as she located a manila folder labelled “_**DANNY**_”. She shoved it in his hands and began gesturing wildly toward it as she exclaimed, “Here! Here, I found your friend at every place doing exactly what I dreamt him doing, the day I dreamt it.”

Bill began to look through the folder. There were only a few photos, since it hadn’t been long since Danny was murdered, but they were all security footage (how she got that, Bill decided not to ask) of Holden doing normal human things, like buying groceries or coming home a little late. There were also sticky notes covered in messy handwriting detailing the exact time and place where he was. If he were to be completely honest, this didn’t seem like proof, just some stalker shit.

“I swear to _God_, I dreamt about him,” she said, growing panicked when Bill didn’t remark. “I swear to _fucking God_ he did something. You probably think I’m just some crazy old widow but this means something, it has to.”

Bill closed the folder gently and set it back down on the counter. When he looked back at Madeleine, she was on the verge of tears, clutching the hem of her old dress.

“_Please_, please, you have to believe me, please...” she begged, her pleas slowly turning to gibberish as she broke down, leaning into Bill’s shoulder. Feeling a sense of empathy, Bill wrapped his arms around her, and she began to sob loudly, grasping at his jacket.

This reminded Bill of Nancy. She had cried in his arms the same way after her third miscarriage, when her mother died in a car accident, when he told her that they would have to move again—so many times. He almost teared up himself thinking about it, but he just sighed shakily, patting her back as he held her close, waiting the two minutes until she separated from him.

“I’m sorry, it’s just been—it’s been so hard,” she said, sniffing. “Danny was my world.”

“I completely understand, ma’am,” Bill breathed, trying a friendly smile.

They stood in silence for a moment until Bill pulled the folder closer toward him, opened it to a random page, and took out his pen, writing ten digits on the corner of the paper.

“This is my home number, call me anytime, alright?” he said. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to do this, but after thirty-seven other sobbing widows, something inside him snapped. She nodded quickly, muttering a goodbye before taking the folder and leaving toward her bathroom, followed by the sound of water rushing through the faucet.

Left alone in the kitchen, Bill took it upon himself to take some of the takeout containers and shove them into the trash before going out to meet Holden, who was already in the passenger side of the car.

“What was that about?” he asked as Bill sat beside him, taking the keys from him and turning over the engine before pulling out into the street.

“It was probably nothing,” Bill said. “She just needed someone to talk to.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if i should continue this in the comments! uwu


End file.
